


urchin of the streets

by sunflowerbright



Series: Hotel California [13]
Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types, Les Misérables - Schönberg/Boublil, Les Misérables - Victor Hugo
Genre: Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Alternate Universe - Reincarnation, Depression, F/M, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-06-16
Updated: 2013-06-16
Packaged: 2017-12-15 04:28:19
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,517
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/845324
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sunflowerbright/pseuds/sunflowerbright
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>“You remember,” he says, and his tone sounds accusing</i>
</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>or, the one with a reunion and a ghost</p>
            </blockquote>





	urchin of the streets

 

**_1832_ **

There are a lot of things in this world to amuse oneself over: the folly of the police, the big men’s so-called games, the belief that they could one day overrule even him. Something they never would, if his own opinion was to be stated on the matter.

One thing in particular that is amusing Gavroche right now, is seeing Montparnasse bite the dust. And because of an old man no less.

He waits until the elderly gentleman has moved out of sight, watching the entire spectacle, before emerging from his hiding-place between some bushes, clapping slowly. Montparnasse’s eyes narrows, a blush rising in his cheeks at the thought that someone may have seen his humiliation at the hands of a half-corpse of a man, mouth set in determination as he plans to get rid of whoever the witness is.

He sees only Gavroche, and immediately relaxes, if only a little.

“It is you, little pup,” he comments. Gavroche comes to stand next to him, tall and proud for a boy of hardly any years – in age if not in experience.

“And it is you, wild flower,” he bows to the elder boy, eyes following the lines of the watch as it disappears into Montparnasse’s pockets. “That was quite a display, eh?”

Montparnasse tilts his jaw up. “I do not know what you mean.”

“You were looking quite fond of the ground there.”

“Gavroche!”

“It is such a sad thing, when the elderly gets the better of us young ones. Just last week, you so cleverly stole the last of that man’s money… what is his name, the man with so many books, you can hardly see his house for them. Is it Mabeuf? It is a sad thing. What happened to the generation that was supposed to flourish? Whatever happened to surpassing those that came before us?”

“Have you been in the wine little boy?”

“Alas, there is no wine in my lodgings. I live in the elephant, you see.”

“The elephant?” Montparnasse looks almost as surprised as he had been moments before, arms in a tight hold as he’d been bested. “That old thing? That must be rather drafty.”

“On the contrary,” Gavroche grins widely, edging closer to give Montparnasse a friendly pat on the arm. “It is warm and safe, and you can find me there, should there ever be need of it.”

“I may have need of it, in fact.”

“Excellent. Do not bother knocking, I am afraid my doorman has gone on holiday.” And with that, he gives a final salute, skipping down the streets, Montparnasse’s wallet and a gleaming, bronze watch clutched tightly in his hands.

He throws the wallet over the wall to the house of the old book-loving fool, figuring Montparnasse owes him, and he can pay up before the poor man ends in the streets like the rest of them. He looks down at the watch in his hand, moonlight hitting the lines and curves: it is a pretty thing, but Gavroche has no need to know the time, and he had rather ruined Mabeuf’s lovely bushes, hiding in them to watch something quite like a play, mighty Zeus putting a young Hermes in his place.

He throws the watch over the wall as well, hoping that Mabeuf finds it useful.

 

 

*

 

**_present day_ **

Musichetta looks about ready to murder someone, and it’s making even Bossuet twitch nervously.

“I’m really sorry that this happened,” Mabeuf says. “I never intended to put you in harm’s way.”

“That’s bullshit.”

“Language,” Joly mumbles into his cup of coffee. Musichetta ignores him. Bossuet gently strokes his back, but keeps his mouth shut.

“No, it is not,” Mabeuf sighs. “It really is not in my interest, at all, to antagonize you or in any way become your enemy. I wish to help. I am happy to see you back: I am happy to see you use this new life to the full. But there are rules and duties, and I wish that you would believe me when I say that they are not within my power to change.”

“Also bullshit.”

Mabeuf looks ready to give up completely, so Bossuet steps forward.

“What we’re trying to say,” Bossuet mumbles. “Is that we don’t know where Enjolras and… was it Gabriel? We don’t know what they did or where they went. Presumably the same place that Grantaire and Eponine did. So we cannot help you, any more than you seem able to help us.”

“Which is also bullshit. He is so able to help, but he doesn’t care,” Musichetta looks ready to strangle Mabeuf, but then the other man glares at her, hard and unyielding, and it makes… well, it doesn’t make Musichetta back down, ten thousand armed men on horseback couldn’t make her do that, but she does stop for a little while and actually gives the man space to speak.

“I cannot help you, but I can give you the name of someone who may be able to,” Mabeuf pulls out a note. “He is a Professor, at a university in the other end of town. His contact information is here.”

“Is he with you?” Joly asks. “I mean, is he… like you?”

Mabeuf smiles sadly. “No,” he answers. “He has chosen to stand outside of the conflict. Somehow he has managed to make both Ana-Maria and Michael leave him out of the game entirely. If anyone can help, then he can.”

“If he’s ‘out of the game’ as you put it, then why would he want to help us?” Bossuet walks forward to take the small slip of paper, scanning over the information. It seems legitimate enough.

“Ah,” Mabeuf says. “Professor Myriel has never quite been able to refuse helping a lost soul.”

****

**_*_ **

****

It is Feuilly that comes to the flat that morning, around the same time that Combeferre knows Enjolras has already left. He’s trying not to let himself be disturbed by the sound of the door opening or closing, or by his own memories, the objections he’d made last night, the demands that Enjolras not go alone, the insistence that he come with them.

It’s not a new thing, Combeferre having to stop Enjolras from doing something fool-hardly because their leader’s emotions are overrunning his sense (even if he’d never admit to it himself). It is rarer still that Enjolras should not even allow him to be at his rightful place beside him.

Not to say that he doesn’t understand: twisting a piece of string around the heated metal, trying to get it precisely like the instructions Gabriel had given him, he knows that Enjolras has trusted him with something important, has made him their backup plan, their way out when this all goes to hell.

And it will all go to hell, because excellent tactician as he is, one needs to actually have a coherent plan for said tactics to work. Enjolras had not given himself time for that.

In normal circumstances, Combeferre would be much more resigned to playing this role: would worry for his friends, but would see the reason behind both the hurry and him staying behind.

But right now he is burning up, and it takes a lot of focus – too much focus – for his hands not to shake, his thoughts not to start a mutiny against him, because all he can think of is soft brown hair and long gangly limbs, and Eponine falling asleep on his chest while they’d been watching TV, and the way she had looked the last time he saw her, pale and angry and so worried about her little brother.

She’d kissed him just before they called the others, hard and brief, and when she’d gone to look for Grantaire, hours later, his lips had lingered over her cheek and she’d given his hand a squeeze and then she’d been gone.

He hardly notices Feuilly come into his study, but he does notice it when the other man places a hand over his, gently prying his fingers open until he drops the metal and the string: if he wasn’t so tired, if this wasn’t one of the people he trusts with his very life, and with Eponine’s as well, he would be lashing out, but it is Feuilly, so he lets go.

“You’ve burned yourself,” the man says, and it starts to sting just as Combeferre sees it: it is not much, the metal merely leaving behind a small mark, the skin an angry red around it. Feuilly pushes a cold washcloth into his hands, magically conjuring it from somewhere, and Combeferre smiles in thanks.

“It hardly hurts,” he tells him, and Feuilly looks sad.

“Sure it doesn’t. What is it that has you so intent like this?”

“It’s, ah…”

“I know that Enjolras asked you not to tell others, just in case it didn’t work, and just to be sure it didn’t slip out. And I know that you are a horrible liar, and I also know that I am going to stay here and make sure you don’t accidentally kill yourself either way, so you might as well tell me, or live with the constant questioning from here on and until we get the others back.”

Combeferre smiles. “I work part-time at a kindergarten; I’m used to constant questioning on everything.”

“I will start shouting about art, then. I’ll even find a green shirt and a wig and do my best Grantaire impression. ‘ _Dicksee, that fucking bastard, such a great artist, and where did it all go?!’”_

Combeferre laughs in spite of himself. “You’re right, I might not survive that.”

“No-one can, for long. Except maybe Enjolras. Which is a good thing, I suppose,” Feuilly trails off, looking intently at his friend. “So tell me?”

He nods slightly. “It’s a fail-safe,” he says. “I’m building a make-shift fail-safe. And it’s going to bring the others home. _Hopefully._ ”

Feuilly looks surprised, and sceptic and possibly all of the things Combeferre did when Enjolras had first told him of this plan. “Is that going to work?”

“Probably not,” Combeferre admits. Feuilly nods slightly.

“Well then. Better let you get back to it. Should I make you some tea?”

 

 

*

 

The next ghost appears beside Jehan as he’s driving, and he almost crashes in shock.

“Whoa!” the woman reaches over and _touches him_ , and her touch is cold like ice, but he instantly feels calmer. He’s able to pull over to the side and stop the car without anyone dying, at least, which counts as a victory.

“Leave me alone,” he hisses at her, despite the calm, because this woman had appeared out of thin air and he knows only one thing that does that. “Just…”

“Hey, I’m not Michael or anyone else,” she says, raising her hands in a defensive posture. “I haven’t been sent by someone with an ulterior motive. I’m only here to help you.”

“And why should I believe you?” Jehan asks: he looks at the woman (afterimage, that’s all she is, like an imprint of something flashing on the back of your eyelids, not really there, a fading copy only), and something stirs in his memories. Her hair is a deep mahogany and her eyes are a very familiar blue colour.

“Because I’m Grantaire’s mother,” she says, and _oh_ , of course.

Grantaire does not have many photographs of his family, but the one Jehan has seen – faded and worn, and for some reason blackened slightly at the edges, as if someone had once almost burned it – depicts this woman, holding a small boy with eyes the same shade as hers.

“That doesn’t mean I should trust you,” Jehan grits out, because dammit, he is getting really, really sick and tired of this. “How are you even here?”

She shrugs. “You’re the only one I could get into contact with. I’ve been trying to reach you since your memories came back, but something kept blocking me.”

“So you’re saying that I’m the only who can see… see dead people?” Jehan asks, swallowing heavily, because _really_. This cannot be his life.

“I believe so.”

“Why?”

She smiles. “Because you’re special, I guess.”

“ _Special?”_ he is going to throw up on her or something. “Um, Madame Grantaire’s Mum, could you please tell the Universe or Fate or whatever that there are other ways to make a boy feel special than sending dead people his way? And also that I’m already dating someone, and I’m not interested, thanks.”

She laughs at that. She has almost the same laugh as Grantaire. It’s eerie. It’s making Jehan fiercely miss his friend, even more than he did already.

“Yeah, I don’t have a direct line to whoever’s pulling the strings, much as I’d like to,” she says. “I’m breaking a lot of rules just by being here, but hey, if there’s a loophole, why not use it?” she grows serious again. “I want to make sure my son is safe, Jehan. And I need your help – all of you – I need you to do this with me.”

Jehan glares, still not ready to relent. “Why?”

“Because when we remembered, my husband and I, we were murdered,” she says, and she states it so coldly, as if it’s a fact of nature. “And I’m not going to let that happen to my son, not if I can help it. I’m guessing you aren’t either.”

He stares out of his window for a short while, looking at the other cars zooming past. “What would you have me do? Enjolras already disappeared, because he couldn’t wait for the rest of us apparently and we’re at… we’re at wits end. I know Combeferre is trying something, but he’s keeping his mouth shut about it, and we don’t even know if it’s going to work. I don’t see what we can do.”

“You can help me find Fantine. Cosette’s mother,” she says. Jehan looks at her in surprise. “You can convince her to help you. She wants to see her daughter again, and she’s growing restless because Mabeuf won’t let her.”

“And you know where she is?”

She smiles again, eyes sparkling. “I know where she is.”

“Alright, can I… sorry, I didn’t even catch your name.”

“It’s Anne.”

 _Anne_. Well.

“Um, can I… can I ask you who murdered you?” he’s pretty sure he knows it already: whatever information they’ve gathered, most of it points to Michael as the Big Bad. Though Ana-Maria is a distinct possibility as well. A very distinct possibility.

“I’m not sure exactly who he is,” Anne says. “But his name was Javert.”

 

 

*

 

“Sorry to interrupt,” Naveen is slightly out of breath, and he’s holding a gun in his hand. “But it seems we are under attack.”

“We’ve been here for five minutes,” Eponine bemoans, and then reaches out to grab a notebook, stacking it in an old bag that had been lying on the floor, another quickly following.

“Are you done hoarding?” Grantaire asks her in disbelief, as she starts scanning the items for more things to fucking pack, apparently. “Did you not hear the man?”

“We need to leave right now,” Naveen agrees, and is backed up by the sound of gunshots in the hallway, yelling and people running. Grantaire hears the thud of a body falling to the floor, and has to swallow heavily, pressing down on the rising panic.

_Soldiers marching towards the barricade. One, two, one two, one, two._

“Alright, I’m done,” Eponine says, swinging the bag up on her shoulders and starts running – sensibly away from the gunfire. Grantaire follows, wondering if he should be asking Naveen for a weapon, but then they’re running through several doors and rooms, until they head for a kitchen, and Naveen shouts for them to go outside, and it isn’t until they are, grass and forest surrounding them again, that he realizes Naveen isn’t with them.

“Keep running,” he tells Eponine, because of course he’s turning back around, _of course he is,_ he’s always been an idiot like that, and Eponine is apparently as big an idiot, because she doesn’t listen to him at all _(he really wishes people would start listening to him),_ and turns to run right back inside with him.

He immediately has to duck as a bullet whizzes past, pulling Eponine with him behind the kitchen-island: he can see Naveen crouching beside the refrigerator, just out of range of the attackers, whoever they are.

“Do you think Michael sent them?” Eponine asks him, because now really is the time for chit-chat. “Do you think they found this place because of us?”

He actually has to stop and think that one over.

“Oh god, maybe,” he mumbles, and feels guilt settle like a lead-weight in his chest. Then bullets fly in the air again, and Naveen just barely gets out of the way, shouting something at them.

“What’s he saying? _‘Does any of you know how to hoot?’_ ”

“He’s saying ‘shoot’ Grantaire,” Eponine looks like she’s trying hard not to smile or panic, or maybe both. “And yes!”

Naveen throws her a gun which she catches excellently, and Grantaire is reminded of a young boy at the barricades, brown cap and brown coat, and that had been Eponine, but the gun had been fired at her, she hadn’t even held a weapon, she doesn’t know how to…

She stands up and fires two shots, followed by a howl of pain from whoever is on the other side of their make-shift shield, ducking down again before she can be hit herself.

“You are so badass,” Grantaire informs her. “If I weren’t already taken, and if you weren’t taken, and if I didn’t know you as well as I do, I would be massively turned on right now.”

“If it helps, I’m a little turned on.”

“Wait, has ‘turned on’ become a code-work for ‘I’m freaking out’?”

“I thought it already was!”

“It really isn’t! Do I suddenly have to rethink a _lot_ of the conversations we’ve had over the years?”

“Would you focus!” Naveen is suddenly beside them, pulling him up by the arm and pushing him towards the door. “Run!”

They make it a good way into the forest this time, without being followed Grantaire presumes, because the sound of gun-shots has fallen away. When they finally stop, Grantaire is out of breath and Eponine sits down on the damp ground, hands still holding a gun and shaking lightly.

“Fuck,” she hisses. “Fuck. Fuckfuckfuckfuck. I’m sorry. Shit, I’m _so sorry_.”

“It wasn’t you,” Naveen mumbles, hands running over his face in a helpless gesture. “It was… they’ve been catching up with us for a long while, and we did a risky thing when we transported you here. We could have… we could have chosen not to. It’s our own fault. We should have been more careful.”

“Then why did you?” Grantaire asks, leaning against one of the trees, letting the rough bark digging into his skin through his shirt keep him focused. “Why did you help us?”

Naveen looks him in the eye. “Because out here, we take care of each other,” he says. “Because in another life, we might have been brothers.”

Grantaire sets his jaw. “We’re not brothers,” he says. “We’re not comrades, or soldiers fighting together. You don’t want anything to do with m… with us. All it’s going to get you is killed. All it’s going to get you is pain.”

“Grantaire,” Eponine’s voice is filled with warnings that Grantaire chooses to ignore. Like always.

“You don’t know anything about us!” Grantaire is yelling now, and that’s probably stupid considering the homicidal maniacs on the loose quite near, but he can’t help it: he’s been ripped open, raw and bloody, and there is _gunfire_ ringing in his ears, and he is cold, cold as ice, because there is no sun here to warm him, no light to guide him and no hand to pull him out of the abyss, and it is ridiculous, because Enjolras had never pulled him out of the abyss before, he did fine on his own, except he _didn’t_ , did he.

He understands why Mabeuf took his memories from him. He hates the man for trying to return them. He wishes he had never touched that damn clock.

“You don’t know what I’m capable of,” he continues, voice only slightly lowered. “You don’t know what happens to people who as much as breathe the same air as me. Do you want to know? They die. Their bodies are pulled out of the Seine, or they go crazy and set a house on fire, my _own aunt_ tried to kill me, because she saw it and she didn’t want it to happen to anyone else!”

“Ella had a breakdown because of her test,” Naveen says, and _of course he fucking knows her,_ because they’re all connected aren’t they, all just one big happy family. “It had nothing to do with you, Grantaire.”

The ornate clock in his pocket has started to tick: he can hear it.

“It has everything to do with me,” he says. “This whole thing, it’s ridiculous and insane, but you don’t get it, do you? You with your fortresses and your magical transportations and your safe-houses and guns, you have as little idea as me of what’s going on, isn’t that right? You’re like puppets being pulled along on a string, and even when you say you want out you can’t, because they still come here to kill you. You have to either fight to the death for someone you’ve never even met, or you have to spent the rest of your life in hiding, always wondering if the next person that comes knocking is going to hold a gun in their hand.”

Naveen just looks at him, like he’s searching for words, and Grantaire has to look away: he makes the mistake of looking at Eponine instead, and she is staring at him in horror, grief painted on her face, and _fuck,_ he never meant to say… he never meant to sound like…

He wants to tell her sorry, wants to explain why he never brought this up with her, wants to tell her that she has been one of the best parts of his life, but this life is colliding with another, one that was painting with oil in too-dull colours on a white canvas and voices drowned out by wine, and someone shining so bright that it _hurt_ , especially when you were used to only dullness. And it wasn’t just him, it was _brothers in arms,_ just like Naveen had said, a group who let him be there, who accepted his company, or perhaps tolerated is a better word, but it was still the best thing he had ever gotten, and colours became sharp again when they were there. Colours became _vivid_ when Enjolras looked at him.

He can’t separate them, he can’t: he is as much the useless cretin of the Nineteenth century as he is the barely capable, but hanging in there drunk of today, and it is some kind of cruel joke that the others have accepted him, have let him stay now, after what he did. After he let them die, just like he’s let everyone else die.   

“I understand your pain,” Naveen says, and Grantaire snorts, but the man glares and holds up a hand, asking for permission to continue without interruption. “No pain is similar, but I do. I have lived many lives – I have seen many loved ones die. Countless loved ones die. I tightened an electric cord around my brother’s neck until all the air had left him,” his accent slips slightly over the words, eyes shining. “I know pain, and I know how to blame myself. But none of that is relevant: I wish to help you, all of you. That should be enough.”

“It is,” Eponine says. “It is, thank-you.” She stands up and takes a few steps towards Grantaire, but then she stops again, and she looks at him as if… as if he’s a stranger. “Grantaire,” she mumbles. “Let’s… let’s get going, alright? We need to leave.”

He’s opening his mouth to tell her no, or tell her yes, he isn’t even sure, when a rustling in the leaves and bushes interrupt him: he tenses, but then its Javert that comes into their line of sight.

“Are any of you harmed?” he asks.

“We’re fine,” Naveen says. “The others…”

“The others seem to have escaped.” Javert says, and then he smiles and Grantaire can feel goosebumps crawling their way up and down his spine. “I am glad you didn’t manage to get far.”

 _Fuck_ , Grantaire manages to think before there is a sharp pain in his neck and the world turns black.

 

 

 

 

 

He wakes up in a cage, and for once it’s not metaphorical. Eponine is stirring beside him, lying on the ground, and Naveen is sitting on a cot, hands folded as if in prayer, eyes closed.

“Whedj…” Grantaire wants to speak, wants to ask, but his tongue isn’t working properly and his head is all fuzzy. Naveen still doesn’t open his eyes, but he tilts his head slightly in Grantaire’s direction to let him know that he is listening. Eponine opens her eyes, blinking in confusion before panic fills them as she sees the bars around them: Grantaire reaches out to place a hand on her shoulder, hoping it comforts. It does, and he is a little surprised, but he’s busy trying to get all of his muscles and brain-cells back in working order to really pay that much attention.

“Darts,” Eponine mumbles. “With sedatives. They fucking shot us with darts. Assholes.”

“Where are we?” he finally gets out.

“You’re somewhere safe,” Javert’s voice carries over to him from the other side of the cage and _fuck,_ why does it always have to be Javert?

“What the hell are you doing?” Grantaire asks, trying to stand on legs that are too shaky. Fuck. Fuck, no. He’d been wrong. Again. Of course he had. The man had _shot him_ , when the hell was he going to learn?

“I’m sorry, the deception was necessary,” Javert says. “In time, you will understand.”

Before he can stop her, Eponine has thrown herself against the bars like a wild animal, her fingers brushing the lapels of Javert’s jacket before he manages to pull back, just in time. She actually _snarls_ at him, and it’s for show, Grantaire knows, and Javert knows it as well, but this is a dog that does have quite a bite, and his eyes still widen just a fraction.

“Calm down, there is nothing you can do,” Naveen says. Eponine leans back, her hands clutching tightly at the bars. “The snake in the grass has come to bite us. And bite us it has.”

 _Again_ , Grantaire thinks. _This is happening again._

Javert turns and leaves without another word, and in that moment Grantaire thinks he _hates_ the other man, hates him almost as much as he once pitied him. He hardly even registers Eponine backing away from the bars, leaning against the wall and sliding down to sit on the floor next to him. Naveen’s eyes have closed again: he looks like he’s meditating. Eponine puts a hand on Grantaire’s arm, and he feels like he wakes again.

“You okay?” he asks her, and she doesn’t answer, which he knows means no: it had been a stupid question anyway. Of course she wasn’t okay.

They sit in silence for a little while. All he can hear is the beating of his own heart: it is oddly steady.

“What do you think will happen to Azelma and Gav if we never make it home?” Eponine’s voice is as steady as he feels right now, and she’s moved her hand away again, deliberately not touching him. Not divulging anything.

Grantaire tenses. “Foster-system,” he mumbles. “But Azelma is old enough. She can… do fine.”

“And then what, be all on her own?”

“The others will take care of them.” He’s not even in the slightest doubt about that. Not any of them will let anything happen to the smallest Thénardier´s: they’ll have a home with Enjolras and Coufeyrac, in Combeferre’s too-big flat, with Musichetta and Bossuet and Joly, with Jehan and Bahorel, with Feuilly in his run-down flat with the noisy neighbours, with Marius and with Cosette and Valjean.

And then they can be raised like pigs for slaughter, and end up just like their sister. Dead on a Barricade or dead in a cage. What’s the difference, really?

“Or maybe they’ll just rob a bank, like your parents did,” he mumbles, pulling his knees up to his chest and placing his forehead against his arms folded on top of them: he feels tired, suddenly. Bone-deep weary.

Hours pass. It feels like hours at least. Grantaire wants to sleep and he can imagine that his cell-mates feel the same, but the tension is too high: he flinches every time he can hear footsteps down the corridor, but no-one ever appears. The light is dim and for the moment, nothing exists but this damn cell and his best friend and a half-stranger who looks at him with sad eyes.

And then the foot-steps grow louder, and there are cursing accompanying them, the sounds of struggling, and the door to their cell is opened, two more prisoners thrown in.

Grantaire wonders if these guys only have the one cage, which has to give them downwards marks in the villain grading-system, but then he sees blonde curls and steely grey-blue eyes, as Enjolras lifts his head to look at him.

“Enjolras!” Eponine exclaims in shock, or quite possibly just to state the obvious, she’s funny like that, but Grantaire hardly registers, his heart is trying to escape through his rib-cage and skin, ripping itself apart, because all he can see is wild, wild curls and red and gold, blood on a pale face and guns aimed, ready to fire.

_“Wait. Stop. Long Live the Republic.”_

Enjolras practically stumbles forward, eyes ablaze and Grantaire is swept into a hug that bruises his ribs, Enjolras clinging to him like they’re dying _now_ and not a hundred or more years ago, mumbling his name over and over again, and it’s too much, it’s always too much with him, but this time he can feel the rising panic like a tidal wave instead of a wild animal sneaking up on him, ready to pounce.

It’s waves growing steadily stronger, even as Enjolras pulls away a little, trying to catch his eyes, one hair tangled in his curls like he so often does, as if he likes to be grounded to him in that way, like Grantaire is something soft and precious to touch, something to hold onto tightly because you don’t want to know what happens if you lose it.

It’s still too much when Enjolras kisses him, all hard and yearning, and the other man must feel it, because he pulls away again quickly _(too quickly)_ and lets Eponine pull him into a hug instead: he smiles at her, though, and hugs her back.

“What are you doing here?” she asks as she pulls back again, and her face is a mix of relieved and _‘Jesus Christ, not you too, I will smack you down’_. Which is pretty standard, actually.

“We came to get you,” Enjolras says, and glances over at Grantaire. “And we found you, it seems.”

“Great, now you’re captured too,” Grantaire mumbles, looking down at the floor again, at the wall, at Naveen’s curious face. Anywhere but at Enjolras.

“Are you injured?” he asks then, and the question is aimed at both Grantaire and Eponine, probably, but his eyes are focused on Grantaire, who shrugs.

“We’re fine, considering.” Eponine says. “How the hell did you even find us?”

“That’s a long story.”

“Well, we have the fucking time, I think.”

She stops talking then, possibly because Enjolras is still too focused on Grantaire (he can feel eyes boring into his head), and he moves over and touches his shoulder, as if worried he’ll break, and Grantaire has to stop himself from not snapping.

“Are you sure you’re alright?”

He has to remind himself that they had parted as… well. That Enjolras had basically pushed him against a wall and tried to swallow his tongue the last time they’d seen each other, which wasn’t even that long ago _(years, all those new years in his head should count)_ , and that he shouldn’t be mad, shouldn’t be angry. It’s not fair to start shouting at Enjolras for getting himself in danger – Grantaire knew that was going to happen. Has always known the risk of that hapening. It’s a knife-edge between telling the other man to get the hell away from him, and reaching out to pull him close, and for once Grantaire chooses the latter, because for now he is still allowed to do so.

Enjolras’ sigh of relief is barely audible, but he hears, and he wonders what exactly it was the other man had been afraid of. He wraps his arms around Enjolras’ waist, and Enjolras’ arms fit around his shoulders, and he lets himself have this.

The moment is ruined as he looks to the other prisoner that had been thrown in with Enjolras and locks eyes with someone hauntingly familiar.

_‘Fire!’_

He’s scrambled to the side, as far away from him as he can, into the corner before he realizes there aren’t bullets flying through the air, piercing his skin, making splashes of red on his clothes. On Enjolras.

“You!” the word escapes involuntarily, even as the man looks at him in surprise.

“You _recognize_ me,” he says, and Grantaire hears Enjolras’ sharp intake of breath and Eponine’s _‘oh fuck’,_ which does seem to fit the situation. The man composes himself then.

“I’m not armed,” he tells Grantaire. “And I’m on your side: I’m in here with you, yeah? I’m not going to hurt any of you, Grantaire, I swear it.”

He wonders if the man had known his name when he’d shot him. Then his thoughts are interrupted by loud shouting outside: whatever guards remained near their cell look at each other and then run for the door, disappearing.

It offers a distraction from the situation that Grantaire takes with gratitude, because _fuck_. Enjolras didn’t know that his memories had been returned. But _now_ he does, and Grantaire doesn’t know how to deal with that.

“We’re getting out of here.” He stands up, thankful that his legs have agreed to support him for once and that they don’t start shaking or collapse completely. Thanks, legs.

“And how do you propose we do that?” Naveen asks, drawing attention to himself for the first time since they’d gotten more company in here. He hadn’t even bothered to introduce himself to the others. Rude.  

“I could pick the lock if I had something thin and strong enough,” Eponine says.

“So could I,” Naveen is starting to sound exasperated. “But we don’t… what is that?”

“This,” Grantaire holds up the object in his hand. “Is a damn clock.” And he lets it fall to the ground and crushes it under his heavy boots.

“No!” the man of the Guard shouts, but it is already done, the rusty hinges and gears breaking under the pressure. Grantaire bends down to pick it up, shifting through the remains until he finds something they may be able to use.

“Thank-you,” Eponine says, snatching it out of his hand and going to work, Naveen moving over to help or offer encouragement: it leaves Grantaire standing with broken clock-work in his hand, and a very grumpy former soldier who once shot him.

“That was reckless,” he tells him. “The energy in that watch gave you back your memories. If there had been remains of it in there, you could have seriously damaged yourself.”

Grantaire smiles sardonically at him. “Been there, done that. Sorry darling, I didn’t catch your name?”

“It’s Gabriel. I’m…”

Grantaire doesn’t hear what Gabriel is, because he is suddenly yanked around by a hand with a tight grip on his jacket, and he ends up facing Enjolras instead.

“You remember,” he says, and his tone sounds accusing: Grantaire can feel every last nerve inside him cringing and flinching and trying to hide, far, far away from this man.

 _No_ , he wants to say. _No, I don’t. I’m still the miserable outcast in this group. We can go back to the way things were. No, I don’t remember how horrible I was, I don’t remember what I did, how much I let you all down, how I betrayed you, you of all people._

“Yes,” he ends up saying, because he can’t lie to Enjolras, not for long, and not about this, when he’s gripping him so tightly and his eyes are still burning with something he has no idea what is, even though he thinks he’s seen it before. “I’ve… apparently my memories were in that pocket-watch, and I got them back when I touched it.”

That is definitely relief flittering over Enjolras’ face. “Why didn’t you say anything?” he asks, pulling him closer, stopping when Grantaire tenses. “Sorry… I’m sorry… No, we should talk about this later.” He decides then, and turns around, hand falling away from his shoulder to wrap around Grantaire’s wrist instead, fingers sliding down to intertwine with his after a minute, and _oh._

He feels calmer. He feels as if he’s waiting for the report to sound. It’s his dying moment all over again.

“They have Cosette,” Enjolras says, and everything comes back in focus. “She was with us, but they did not lead her to here. We need to find her.”

“Cosette is Fantine’s daughter?” Naveen asks, and Enjolras frowns at him until Grantaire gives his hand a squeeze.

“That’s Naveen, he’s cool enough when he’s not going on and on about brotherhood,” he says, ignoring the dark-haired man’s glare. “You’ve been hanging out with the person who killed us, Enjolras, I can make friends too.”

“What’s our position?” Naveen asks, and Enjolras walks closer to him, letting go of Grantaire even though he seems reluctant to do so.

“The cage is in a separate building: we’ll be outside as soon as we make it out of here. We’ll have to locate Cosette, but Eponine and Grantaire will be waiting at another point – our friends are getting to us from there.”

He is immediately met with protests from both of the mentioned parties.

“The hell I’m just going to…”

“Splitting up, does that really sound like a good idea to you?!”

“Be quiet!” Enjolras’ voice is so loud it must have surely alerted whatever guards there are, but since that seems to be zero (and another minus points for the villains), nothing happens. “Let’s just focus on getting out of here to start with.”

Eponine glares, but goes back to tinkering with the lock. Grantaire really doesn’t feel like letting this go, though.

“You and Cosette both came here to help us,” he says, and it’s so easy, too easy to let his temper rise about this. He lets it. “I am not going to go frolic about somewhere else, I am going to help her too.”

“You _are_ helping!” Enjolras hisses, voice lowered now. He digs through his pockets and pulls out a pen, handing it to him. “This is connected to the key we’re trying to make. If it starts to glow, place it on the ground. We need to do this somewhere away from here, or there’s a risk of unwanted parties coming with us.”

“A key?”

“The thing that transported all of us here. Combeferre is trying to make one: it’s the only way to get back to the others right now, and I need you to…”

“You need me to be out of the way,” Grantaire snaps. “And it’s not going to happen. I’m sure Mr Officer knows more about this shit than I do: him and Eponine can do it.”

“Hey!” the girl protests.

“Him and Naveen can do it,” Grantaire amends: he really wants Eponine out of danger, but he is also not stupid enough to fight her about it. But Enjolras unfortunately is.

“I didn’t come all this way just to put you two in more danger,” he says, and Grantaire ignores the part of him that takes that to heart, that wraps up the care and the worry and lets it flow through him, because he won’t back down on this.

“I’m sure the two of them knows more about how the keys or whatever works,” he says. “They can do it better.”

“That is true,” the officer mumbles. “And my name is Gabriel, by the way.”

“No offence, but I don’t really care right now,” Grantaire is still looking at Enjolras, who looks like his teeth will soon be turned into dust, he’s grinding them together so hard.

“I can do it alone,” Gabriel says then. “Find a spot, get the key. If Naveen knows the layout of this place…”

“I don’t,” Naveen admits. “I don’t even know if it’s Michael or Ana-Maria that has us.”

Gabriel frowns at that, but then the lock clicks open, and Eponine is practically flying out through the door, Naveen hot on her heels: he looks much calmer as soon as he is out of the cage. Grantaire wonders if the man feels like his entire life (or lives) has been spent in one – if he gets claustrophobic and paranoid at the mere mention of them now.  

“I’m going out to scout the perimeter,” he tells them: Grantaire has to crush the urge to make a salute in his direction, and merely watches him leave. And then he watches Enjolras and Gabriel stringing some form of plan together, and thinks that this is possibly the most surreal moment of his life. Surreal and horribly familiar.

In another world, they’d been on two different sides. Quite literally: separated by a wall of fucking furniture, ready to kill the other, because the need was there. Because the duty was there.

And now they’re plotting together, making plans, and _Enjolras had come looking for him_ , and he doesn’t know how to react because he hadn’t expected that, which is a poor testimony to Enjolras, he thinks, but it just goes to show how little Grantaire actually understands, he supposes. He’s pretty sure the number of things in that category is zero. Possibly below.

Naveen comes back in suddenly, face a mask of confusion.

“They’re gone,” he says. “The whole place has been deserted.”

 

*

 

Ai reaches the catacombs before they get her, and the sound of bullets hitting bones and skulls in the walls almost makes her panic and stop dead in her tracks, because maybe if she stops they’ll stop shooting, maybe if she falls down to the floor they’ll miss.

But she can’t take that risk. Not with what she’s carrying. Not when it’s _them_ that’s here, that’s after them.

It’s when she turns the corner that she almost collides head-first with a tall and slim male carrying a gun, and he is as surprised as she is, because he does nothing, with gives the prisoner beside him a good opportunity to jump up on his back. He keels forwards and Ai steps aside, remembers her training and hits him on the back of the head, rendering him unconscious. The prisoners stands beside her, looking shocked and breathless and suspicious, eyes narrowed.

It’s a young woman, blonde hair streaked with dirt, possibly after having struggled and fallen in the forest: her hands are cuffed, but apart from an angry bruise on her cheek she looks fine.

“He’s not with you,” the prisoner says flatly, and Ai shakes her head, because _obviously not_. “Who…”

Footsteps, echoing through the passages: Ai grabs the prisoners hands and pulls her down through the corridors, running, hoping the girl will follow without protest or struggle: it will get them killed. She does, which is a good decision on her part: Ai knows these caves and hallways of the dead. She’s been avoiding people here for a long time.

And true enough, it isn’t long before she’s shaken off their attackers: as soon as they’re as safe as they can get down here, she turns around and shoves the girl against the cave-wall.

“Who are you?” she demands. “Who sent you?”

“I could be asking you the same question!” the girl hisses. “But no-one sent me. I’m here looking for my friends. Grantaire and Eponine. Eponine Thénardier and…”

“Oh,” Ai stops her eyes widening. “ _Oh._ You’re Cosette.”

The girl’s eyes widen. “How do you know my name?”

Ai tightens her grip around Cosette’s hand. “You’re going to have to trust me,” she says. “I’ll get you home. But you’re going to have to trust me.”

“Loving the sound of this, really,” Cosette dryly says, but she follows with little hesitation. It’s not like she has much choice, Ai thinks. It’s her or the killers who captured her.

 


End file.
